


The Written Word

by redonpointe



Series: Human Error [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redonpointe/pseuds/redonpointe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes reads poetry for Molly Hooper and unwittingly causes an intriguing reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Written Word

"I can't believe this is what you're reading." Sherlock was sitting at her kitchen counter, frowning at the leather-bound book in his hands. Molly sighed, stirring the contents of the pot in front of her.

"Why did I ask you over, again?" She asked, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

"Because you just broke up with Tom and you're lonely." Molly looked at him. "Oh, and John asked you to keep an eye on me, though I can't imagine why. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Right, well, I'll have you know that Byron is a classic." Molly continued, ignoring his speech and concentrating on the food. "Have you ever read him?"

"If I did, I deleted it." He said simply, cracking open the book and leafing through the pages.

"I like it." She shrugged and shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

"Did Tom like it?" Sherlock asked, drawing Molly's eyes back to him. He was looking at her like he was actually interested in her answer and Molly found herself carefully considering his question.

"Sometimes." She replied finally. "It was really more my thing, than his."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead shifting his eyes back to the book and turning a few more pages before he stopped. Molly watched, slightly curious as he placed the book down on the counter and cleared his throat.

"She walks in beauty, like the night," he began slowly, taking his time with every word. Molly paused her stirring and just stared at him, an unexpected flutter rising in the pit of her stomach. "Of cloudless climes and starry skies," he paused, frowning slightly at the page, "And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes."

He glanced up at her, his frown deepening as he studied her, before returning his eyes to the page. "Thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies."

"K-keep going." Molly managed to choke out, clearing her throat and turning towards the stove so she wasn't staring at him like an idiot. He didn't go on right away, and Molly could feel his eyes on her, but she studiously ignored him.

"One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace," he took the book in his hands and leaned back in his chair, she chanced a peek at him and he was looking at her as if she were suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet, "which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face," he paused again, slightly narrowing his eyes, "where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place."

Molly took a deep breath. She felt flushed, and she briefly fanned herself with her free hand, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance before stopping and placing it on her hip. What was wrong with her?

"And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below," he stopped again for so long that Molly forced herself to look at him. Why was he looking at her like that? "A heart whose love is innocent."

Sherlock stared at her for a long time, and Molly stared at him in turn. He looked confused, annoyed, and something else she couldn't place, but her heart was beating a mile a minute. What was it about him reading that was so attractive?

Finally he snapped the book closed and set it down, glancing at the stove before looking back at her. "Food is burning."

Molly jumped, quickly moving the pot off the stove. Behind her, she could hear Sherlock's chuckle as he slid out of his chair and searched for take-out menus.

* * *

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Molly walked into Sherlock's living room and threw herself down on the couch. "It's late, and I'm hungry and exhausted."

"Cook something." Sherlock said simply, standing up from his chair and clasping his hands behind his back. Molly glared at him before tilting her head back and closing her eyes.

"You're having a laugh, aren't you?" She sighed, too tired to come up with any sort of witty comeback. Too tired to even think, really, but she had to because she was here under Sherlock's all too annoying insistence. "Just tell me what you want so I can go home."

"I want to try something." Sherlock announced, with such formality that Molly opened her eyes and stared at him.

"Do I need to be cooking?" She asked tiredly. Sherlock hesitated, his hands still behind his back as he looked around the room. Molly frowned. "Do I?"

"No, I suppose not." He moved forward, walking over the table in front of the couch and sitting on it so that he was facing her. Molly straightened, unused to having him so close to her while they were alone. "You just need to listen."

"Okay." She said doubtfully, and she watched while Sherlock brought a book around from behind his back and clasped it in both hands. Molly blushed, remembering the last time he'd read to her and the embarrassingly unexpected feelings it had caused in her. "Keats?"

"Mm." Sherlock replied, his eyes intent on her face while she struggled to understand what he was doing. "I noticed the book on your shelf the other night. You had a rather curious reaction to Byron, I was just wondering if it would be the same with Keats." He paused. "Shall I read to you?"

"Y-yes. P-please." Molly sat back, her eyes wide and disbelieving as Sherlock cracked open the book and thumbed through the pages. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding the book out in front of him.

"My heart aches," he began, and Molly could already feel her blush deepening, "and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk."

She stared at him, her eyes glued to his mouth as he recited the words.

"Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk," he looked at her, his eyes curiously scanning her face before he continued, "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness,— that thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees—"

It wasn't fair. There was no way this man, or any man, could have this effect on her just by reading. Well, it wasn't  _just_  the reading, was it? It was his voice too. It was low, and silky, and—oh, she had to get a hold of herself.

"In some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows numberless," Molly opened her mouth to ask him to stop, but he continued, completely unaware, "singest of summer in full-throated ease."

Molly didn't think. She moved forward, catching his face with her hands and pressing her lips to his' before he had a chance to know what was happening. He tensed, and for a split second Molly could almost feel the entire weight of her mistake. She pulled away, blushing a deep scarlet as she gathered her things to leave, and never, ever,  _ever_ , come back. Maybe she'd move out of London. Maybe—

"Molly?" Molly shook her head, refusing to look at him as she walked out the door and down the stairs. "Molly!"

* * *

Molly was ignoring him. Honestly, she couldn't even face herself in the mirror since the incident, let alone face  _him_. She didn't know what had come over her, but hearing him say those words like that, and to  _her_ , even if his intentions had been purely scientific in nature, had been enough to make her lose her mind.

That was it, wasn't it? She'd lost her mind.

John was finally back from his honeymoon, but he was still alarmingly absent for most of Sherlock's cases. Molly had taken to hiding in her office and staying there whenever Sherlock came in to work. The fact that he hadn't insisted spoke volumes about his feelings concerning the event.

He hated to work with other people since he'd started working with her. They had an easy chemistry, and it made the work easier as well. Now, he wasn't even  _trying_  to look for her, and she really couldn't blame him. She'd essentially attacked him, hadn't she?

Molly groaned and dropped her head into her hands. She was bored doing paperwork, but somewhere beyond her door, Sherlock was working, and she couldn't bring herself to step out into the hallway. She closed her eyes, letting the whole event play out in her head again before she was suddenly ripped from her thoughts when her office door opened.

"I'm busy." She grumbled, eyes still closed. People could wait for a day while she got her bearings.

"Whoever you are, holding me now in hand," Sherlock spoke and Molly looked up, visibly shaken by his sudden appearance, "without one thing, all will be useless."

"W-what are you doing?" Molly stuttered. Sherlock's mouth lifted up at the corner, his eyes flashing mischievously as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further," he stepped toward her desk and she jumped out of her chair, "I am not what you supposed, but far different."

"That's Whitman." Molly said uselessly, moving away from him as he stalked her around her office.

"Indeed." Sherlock smiled, narrowing his eyes and taking another step forward. "Who is he that would become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?"

"Sherlock—" Molly felt the wall behind her and yelped, causing him to pause in his steps and broaden his smile.

"The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive; you would have to give up all else—" He closed the gap between them, putting a finger beneath her chin and tilting her face up to meet his eyes.

"You have to stop." Molly said weakly, confused by his sudden interest in her reactions.

"Shall I skip ahead then?" He said seriously, gently cupping her face in his hands and locking his eyes with hers'. "The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have to be abandon'd—"

"Wha—"

"Therefore," he paused, his look becoming more intense, "release me now, before troubling yourself any further—let go your hand from my shoulders, put me down, and depart on your way."

"Are you trying to warn me off?" Molly asked, knowing full well the progression of that poem, beyond the words he'd spoken.

"God, no." He leaned forward, his lips meeting hers', soft and hot, and making her tingle all over, before pulling away with a triumphant smile on his face. "I'm trying to draw you in."


End file.
